


City of Snow and Stone

by Ashura



Series: The Bard and the Blade [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bards Being Bards, Friendship, Gen, Interesting NPCs Mod, Live Another Life Mod, Wandering Skyrim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:59:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashura/pseuds/Ashura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One is a bard who can't get an audition at the college. One is a shieldmaiden rejected by the Companions. Together, they fight crime! Angharad and Uthgerd continue their travels with the Khajiit, go sightseeing in Windhelm, and stumble onto a murder mystery. And there is <i>lot</i> of singing. </p><p>(Vaguely follows the questline for 'Blood on the Ice,' so spoilers for that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The road to Windhelm was long on foot, but the Khajiit set a brisk pace and stopped but little. The first night they camped outside Morthal – a tiny, desolate marsh of a city scarcely bigger than Rorikstead, despite being capital of the hold. But Ma'dran and the others liked it.

“There are no walls to keep us out,” he said, “and Jarl Idgrod is not Ulfric Stormcloak. She does not mind our presence, though she takes little note of us. We camp outside because there is nowhere on the streets our tent would fit.”

Nevertheless, they kept to themselves. The tired inn was silent and may well have welcomed them, but they said they had no need for others' company. Angharad and Uthgerd, after considering for a moment, stayed with them.

Somewhere in the tent, amidst piles of clutter and wonders, Ma'dran found sheet music to some of Elsweyr's more popular tunes, and lent it to Angharad to learn from. After the camp was set up, and Ra'zhinda was stirring a pot of stew that smelled heavily of frost mirriam and garlic, she sat on a pile of furs with a lantern glimmering over the parchment, and tried to learn them. Her fingers found their own way in time, wandering off on an improvisational journey of their own, and what had been _Moon Sugar and Dream_ became only Dream, and longing and hope and a musing little melody with no destination.

And then she looked up, and there was a boy staring at her.

He was Nord, about twelve or thirteen, probably local, with a fall of messy brown hair and a faraway gaze that was more than a little unsettling. He stood perfectly still, still in a way boys never stood, as if he were a bird who might at any moment take flight. 

“You're not like the others,” he said. 

_Which others?_ Angharad almost asked as her fingers stilled, but she was too startled to make the words.

“I can tell,” he continued, and smiled shyly from behind the fall of hair. “Not like anyone in Morthal – or Skyrim.”

“No?” Angharad, having found her words, countered gently. “I don't know about Morthal, but I'm sure I'm like a lot of other people in Skyrim.”

The boy shrugged, too careless, and shrunk in on himself. “I see things,” he continued, cautious, a moment from flight again. “I can't explain. But I know.” He stared fiercely at his feet as Angharad tried to work out just what to make of this stranger, and then asked suddenly, “What were you playing?” 

Her fingers stroked the body of the lute. She was attached to it already. “Not really anything. I was making it up as I went.”

“It was blue and silver,” the boy said. He was still looking at his feet, as if he were only too aware his words made little sense. “Like when you swirl the water in the moonlight, and the light spins through it. Like shadows in a dark room, but the nice kind. Familiar ones, that belong to home, only I'm not sure where it was supposed to be.” 

The lute itself was stained blue, of course, and the moonlight did touch it sometimes. Maybe such a thing could be channelled into a tune, or maybe he had just caught sight of it. “I'm not sure either,” Angharad admitted. Where would she ever find familiar shadows again? “But I think you're right about the colours.”

The boy's smile was sudden, fierce and bright as a falling star. “I knew it. I knew you were different.” 

She still knew no such thing, but Angharad saw something heartbreaking in that smile. How many people had misunderstood him before now, to bring it out after something so small? “Any bard can talk about the colours of songs,” she promised him.

He sniffed, and suddenly was an ordinary boy, if only briefly. “Not ours. I asked him once and he thought I meant he should make up a song about colours. It was awful. It only stopped because nothing rhymes with orange, but some of the things he tried before realising that were ghastly.” He grinned. “Mostly food. Porridge. _Melânge_.” 

The change in demeanour itself would have been enough to make her laugh, but how was there a bard here, a real bard, who tried to rhyme 'orange' with 'porridge' while she couldn't even get a proper audition at the College? “That does sound awful.”

“It was,” the boy said. “It was worse because it was me. My mother won't let him play at Highmoon Hall – Jonna wouldn't let him play at the inn, if he didn't pay for his own room – but I think he thought if he impressed me he'd get to. He sang an ode after that. It was called 'To the Mudcrabs in the Marsh'.”

Angharad said, diplomatic, “Well, they do say you should write about what you know.”

The boy made a non-committal noise, and recited:

“ _O! Mudcrab great, with pincers clacking  
With an axe you'll take a whacking,  
then you'll go into the steam  
and we'll eat you hot with herby cream._”

Angharad stared at him for a moment, trying to work out if he was putting her on, or if this was actually what passed for music in Morthal. “That – that was awful.”

“Yes,” the boy said, matter-of-fact. He seemed less far away, more alive and real than he had only a few moments ago. “Everyone says Lurbuk is the worst bard in the world. I don't know if that's true – I don't think anyone can have seen every bard in Skyrim, let alone the world – but he's very bad.” He met her eyes, his own half-hidden behind the fall of brown hair. “Will you come play for us sometime? My mother would like the blue song.”

And his mother was at Highmoon Hall. Angharad, from near the border of Whiterun and Hjaalmarch, knew only a little about Jarl Idgrod. She was said to be wise and plagued with visions, but surely she was too old to have a son so young? But Morthal didn't seem to be big enough for a huge court, either. “I'd like that, very much,” she said. “But I'm not a member of the Bards' College.” She didn't mind leaving that part out playing for inn patrons and travellers, but jarls' halls were different.

“Oh,” the boy sniffed, “that doesn't matter. Neither is Lurbuk. College bards never come here. When will you play? Tomorrow?” 

Angharad shook her head. “We're on our way to Windhelm, and if I don't go with my friends when they leave, I'll get lost,” she pointed out. Uthgerd would stay with her if she did, of course, but the swamps of Hjaalmarch were unfamiliar territory and while she might be warming to adventuring, she was grateful for the safety of the caravans' numbers and the good hard steel of Ra'zhinda and Ma'jhad's swords. “But once we've been there a few days we'll come back this way. I could play for you then?” 

The boy nodded. “I'll tell Mother,” he said and then, without warning, scampered off into the darkness and vanished. The flickering torchlight of the caravan camp disturbed the darkness just enough, and where he had been, she could see only blackness and shadow.

* * * 

Windhelm was a great towering bulk of a city, the snow on its stern grey walls blending them into the mountains behind them, an imposing fortress of stone and ice looming over the road to the north. A bitter wind whipped at the travellers' faces nearly as soon as they reached Eastmarch, as if even the weather refused the caravan welcome. The Khajiit, experience having made them cautious of a blizzard, marched close together, three abreast. Angharad walked behind them with her hood drawn low and Wolf trotting transparent at her side; no amount of cold or wind or snow bothered a familiar, and his senses were uncannily sharp. Only Uthgerd seemed unbothered, and she strode on a few paces ahead of them, clearing the way as much as she could. Twice the white ice wolves harried them, and twice Wolf and Uthgerd dispatched them before Angharad or Ra'zhinda could even draw their weapons. At Ma'dran's urging they dressed the kills quickly and added the bodies to their burdens; the meat was nourishing if not inspiring, and the pelts would bring a few coins. 

They little band trudged up the road past the stables outside the city, where the snowdrifts had formed a natural wall around a small hollow. Next to the stables was a long bridge leading over the White River to the city itself; Windhelm was a port city but the docks and the riverside were invisible in the blinding snow. Angharad couldn't even see as far as the city gate – only the stables, and the fence around them which she would not have noticed at all had their not been someone sitting on it. 

He wore blue mage's robes and a hood over his face; he seemed to be watching them as they marched. The wind blew the hood back, and as he reached to keep it from blowing away she caught a glimpse of Elven features and golden skin. He sat on the fence as casually and carelessly as if it were midsummer, and stranger still appeared to be barefoot. Angharad had always known wizards to be a little odd, and certainly they might not always have the greatest instincts as to their own preservation, but she'd never known one to deliberately court frostbite. But while she considered this, the wizard slipped gracefully off the fence and disappeared into the house, and she was left wondering if her eyes might have simply been tricked by snow-blindness.

She helped the Khajiit set up their little tents, and huddled inside one while they tried in vain to lure customers to the camp. The snow grew thicker, the wind ever more fierce, until even Ma'dran admitted that they would get no business at all if things continued this way. Uthgerd and Ma'jhad built a fire, and they all huddled miserably around its meagre, tired warmth. 

Angharad tried to bring the lute out, once, but it was too cold – the strings were taut with it, and her fingers too numb to play, and she put it away again for its own preservation. She had lived in Skyrim for years and did not ever remember being so cold; the worst winters of the Reach were still mild in comparison to this cruel wind. She wrapped her travelling cloak tight around her and tried to think about being warm, and lost track of the conversation completely until Uthgerd shook her, and hauled her to her feet.

“Up,” the Nord said, without sympathy. To Ma'dran she added, “I'm taking her into the city before she freezes. I'm sorry I can't do the same for you.” It was honest; there was nothing Uthgerd could do about the ban that kept the Khajiit from Skyrim's cities. In any case, Ma'dran only shrugged.

“We will manage. Khajiit always do. But we would not wish harm to befall a friend. Perhaps it is best you stay within the walls, until the storm is over.” 

Angharad was too cold to protest, or to be anything but pleased at the prospect of a warm inn, a real bed, and hot food. She gathered up her pack and lute. “I'll be back as soon as there's a chance of playing,” she promised, and Uthgerd turned her, and led her up the bridge. 

* * *

Only Nords were really welcome in Windhelm, but Bards were welcome everywhere, and within the bustling warmth of Candlehearth Hall, Angharad played to a cheerfully appreciative crowd. This was Ulfric Stormcloak's city, and she chose her pieces carefully, leaving anything that might make too blatant a reference to current affairs in favour of traditional fare: ancient battles, lost loves, and lively drinking tunes. _Mogo's Mead_ and _Ragnar the Red_ were popular everywhere in Skyrim, no matter how many times people heard them, and _Three Hearts as One_ brought at least two grown Nord men to tears as they shouted along with her, “Blood for the Pact!” That their allies during that same battle, the Dunmer and Argonians, were now confined to the ghetto and the dockside within the city that gave them refuge, was an irony apparently lost on them. 

Between every few tunes she let her fingers rest and chatted with the patrons. Candlehearth Hall was the only inn of any standing in Windhelm; the closest equivalent was a Dunmer haunt in the Grey Quarter and racial tensions meant the clientele of the two seldom mixed. Everyone who was not a Dark Elf came here to drink instead, and Angharad met an Imperial novelist who promised to commend her to his friends in the Bards' College, a grizzled old mercenary who backed off offering any kind of 'service' to her when Uthgerd glared at him, a retired sea captain, a local activist. A priestess caught her for nearly a quarter of an hour to extol the virtues of Talos, perfectly happy to go on at length whether Angharad agreed with her or not. The barmaid, a pretty and cheerful girl teasingly nicknamed Susanna the Wicked, was happy to share the local gossip, from the activist's unsubtle and unwelcomed attempts to seduce the sea captain to the recent murder of a nobleman's daughter.

“You didn't hear it from me,” she added, leaning close, “but if you want a real drink, go and play the Cornerclub in the Grey Quarter, tomorrow. Not to mention Ambarys would be glad of news and music, they get little enough of it.” She deposited a mug of mead on the table and added, “Compliments of the house – that one about the Pact is one of Elda's favourites. A little odd as she's so worried about the elves taking over the whole city. Where else were they supposed to go? We could be better neighbours.” She flashed Angharad a smile as she was whisked away; a table of Stormcloaks were calling for another round. The bar grew more crowded, full of people and the lively buzz of conversation, and Angharad took up her lute again.

She played until the inn quieted and most of the patrons were shuffling home. There were still a few stragglers, as there always were in such places: the town drunk slurring into his mead, an elderly nobleman drowning his sorrows, and Susanna wearily wiping down tables. 

“Hope we'll see you again, beautiful,” she said cheerfully. “Go down and see Elda, she'll have something for you. You made her a fair bit of coin tonight. Remember what I said about tomorrow, all right? Oh,” she added, her face going suddenly serious. “And keep that bodyguard of yours with you, if you decide not to stay tucked up warm here at night. There's a madman out there, murdering women in the street. Don't go wandering about alone.” From the expression on Uthgerd's face, Angharad expected she wouldn't be given the opportunity.

A traveller or two who were staying in the common room hovered about, waiting until it was quiet enough to lie down their bedrolls. The bar's landlady, Elda, was delighted with Angharad and made a great fuss of her, filling her purse with coin and giving her and Uthgerd a large, comfortable room on the ground floor. It wasn't so grand as the one in Solitude had been, but it was warm and clean, and Angharad fell into bed gratefully. Good music, good drinks, and an appreciative audience – surely there was nothing better in all of Nirn.

* * * 

The blizzard continued unabated through the night and most of the next day. Angharad and Uthgerd ventured out into the city anyway, seeing the sights of Windhelm through a persistant curtain of snow. They bought a few trinkets in the marketplace in the Stone Quarter, where a shivering shopkeeper explained that business must continue as usual in Windhelm whatever the weather, or there would never be any business at all. They wandered down the Valunstrad, where the carved names of ancient kings were worn deep into the weathered walls: Harald Hand-Free, Olaf One-Eye, Wulfharth of Atmora – all figures long-since lost into legend and a history that for a moment felt immediate and close. She looked on it all with the heart of a bard, a keeper of lore and legend, but Uthgerd, who held her Nord honour close and deep, was clearly moved.

The shieldmaiden paused for a moment before the first memorial stone, pressing her fingers against the smooth-worn wall. Angharad, at her shoulder, recited quietly a few lines she could remember from the Edda:

“Fled the devil'd dragons from him -  
Harald of Ysgramor's line.  
Forelhost, their last dominion  
fell before the Hand-Free's sign.”

A passing soldier in Stormcloak colours – which was nearly all the guards and soldiers in Windhelm – nodded approvingly, and Uthgerd flashed her a wistful smile. 

“I always meant to come up here and see it,” she said. “It's just such a long way from Whiterun, and with the war...there was always some reason not to, something I needed to do at home. I'd always plan for the next season, the next time a caravan came in, but never did. I'm glad we came.” 

A guard let them into the palace, after suggesting a few points of interest and warning them not to bother the Jarl. Angharad had no particular wish to come to Ulfric Stormcloak's attention, but he was absent from the throne room anyway, and they could explore the main hall without concern. It was a grand room, its walls and ceiling all carved grey stones. A shield bearing the Bear of Eastmarch was carved of stone above an impressive throne, and banners of blue and gold hung along the edges of the room. Splinters of light shone from the four slim windows on the back wall, while torches and bone chandeliers lit the rest, and the scent of smoke was everywhere.

But for all its grandeur, the Palace seemed empty. This was a city at war – there was no audience of noblemen, no bard or jester, no bustling court, just a few soldiers watching for an absent Jarl. A few others – travellers or townsfolk, Angharad couldn't tell – wandered the perimeter of the hall and let themselves out. The single officer of the court was the steward, a tall Nord with an impressive ginger moustache. 

He seemed relieved when she spoke to him, happy to talk about the history of the palace and the city. His name was Jorleif, an old friend of Ulfric's with more talent for administration than strategy. 

“Lots of history in these walls,” he said, with a grand gesture at the cavernous walls. “We're trying to make some more. The Stormcloaks are finding victory across the land!” 

“Finding it?” Uthgerd said under her breath, when they were out of earshot. “It's not as if it's just lying around, or growing like tundra cotton to be picked. They're fighting for every scrap of it.” 

Angharad looked at her. They still didn't talk about the war, and she didn't ask. But Uthgerd saw her expression and shrugged. “I'm not on either side, as long as neither goes attacking Whiterun. I think Ulfric has the right of it with Talos, but I'm not as sure as he is that Skyrim can hold off the Dominion all on its own. Even if he has got the _thu'um_ , the way they say.” 

“ _Thu'um_?” Angharad asked. They left the hall, closing their cloaks around them as they stepped back out into the snow. “You mean like old King Wulfharth?” She'd heard the same rumours everyone had, that Ulfric had shouted High King Torryg apart with the power of his voice, but had taken it to be exaggeration. 

Uthgerd pulled her hood up. “Didn't you know? You're from near the Reach, I thought you'd have heard it. The Markarth Incident? Where the Jarl invited the Stormcloaks in to fight the Forsworn, because Ulfric had the _thu'um_.”

Angharad shook her head. “It's before my time, and I was born in High Rock. I should have known it, but I suppose it's one of those things nobody said because they assume everyone already knows. I know about the Incident, of course, but not the shouting. Does that mean Ulfric is the one the song's talking about? _The Dragonborn Comes_?” 

“I don't know, but leave it to him to take advantage of the idea.” Uthgerd snorted. “And it could be. The reports said that a dragon saved him from the headsman's axe at Helgen, though whether it meant to rescue him or eat him is anyone's guess. If it's friendly to him, he's hiding it somewhere, because it's certainly not perched on the roof of the palace.” 

The rest of the afternoon they spent wandering. An old man ran a museum of odd artefacts from his adventuring days, and proudly showed him around his collection of junk. It was all nonsense, but it reminded Angharad of the curiosity tents in the Wayrest markets – good fun, and nobody minded that the stories weren't true. 

Uthgerd was less sanguine. “Ysgramor's soup spoon, indeed,” she grumbled. “Two septims for lies and unconvincing cutlery. He talks a good game, though. We should take him with us the next time we have anything to sell. He'd have told Ma'dran that bandit armour was taken from Olaf One-Eye himself.” 

“I'm more worried about the Book of Fate,” Angharad said dryly, “as I apparently don't have one. Oh, it was all right. It's just for fun, and he's an old man. Two septims for a story hardly matters.” 

They walked toward the Grey Quarter, and the difference between this district and the wide white streets near the Palace was apparent. While the streets and buildings were built from the same grey stone, they were narrower, smaller, dingier. The lamps were cold and unlit, the snow unswept from the cobbled, uneven streets. There were only a few people about – Dunmer, hurrying from one door to another, ducking into buildings as if trying not to be seen. When they encountered a pair of burly Nord men harassing a dark-skinned Elf woman, it was obvious why. 

“Maybe we'll just pay a visit to you tonight, Imperial spy!” one of the men was growling. His voice was slurred, his face purple with an excess of mead. 

“Imperial spy?” the woman repeated, with the exasperated weariness of someone who has had the same conversation over and over, and never yet found a way to avoid it. “You know better than that.” 

The man leaned in closer. “We have _ways_ ,” he mumbled, “of finding out -” 

He never finished just what it was they could find out, because Uthgerd knocked him over. He glared up at her, flailing to right himself, spouting half-coherent accusations. “You – Dark Elf lover – get out of our city!” 

Uthgerd eyed him calmly. Angharad could see her smouldering anger, even if the drunk man couldn't. She had protective instincts – otherwise she would never have come with Angharad in the first place – and a hot temper, and bullying women and children provoked her fury faster than anything. She watched the man struggled to his feet, and when he swung a flailing fist in her direction, she knocked him down again. He landed hard, with a mouthful of snow. Uthgerd turned wordlessly and walked away, her eyes blazing, her mouth in a hard, thin line. Angharad hurried after her, but said nothing. There was no need.

* * * 

The khajiit camp was marked out by a small wall of snow, a fortification against the worst of the wind with a path leading up to it; Ra'zhinda and Ma'jhad had been busy. They had cleared a spot around the fire and lain furs atop the ground, and so managed in safety, if not in comfort. Angharad was surprised herself by how pleased she was to see them – she'd liked the city, but it was full of strangers, and the khajiit had become welcome friends. Ra'zhinda was stirring a cauldron of the spicy stew they ate on the road; Angharad brought fresh bread from their morning in the market. 

Only when they had all eaten did she bring out her lute, and played softly in the crackling firelight as the khajiit smoked moon sugar from delicate pipes. Not all of the songs were from Elsweyr, for while she started with the haunting _Moons Over Riverhold_ again, she soon found her fingers drifting. There was a lullaby her mother used to play for her, a sweet little dream-song, and from there she let melody and memory lead her. The safety of their little fort of snow dampened sound and made the night quiet, and sometimes the others spoke, and sometimes they listened to her play.

“Excuse me.” The wind had grown momentarily tired of competing with the lute and quieted, and Angharad's fingers stilled at the unfamiliar voice. Uthgerd looked up sharply, but the khajiit seemed unbothered. They were likely used to interruptions from potential customers.

But this was an elf in mage's robes – the same one, she thought, who had watched them arrive. His hood was low over his face, but she could still see his bright eyes reflecting the firelight. He held a clay jug against his chest, partly covered by the blue robe's mantle. 

Ma'dran, lounging half-curled on a cushion, straightened and lowered his pipe. “How can khajiit help?” he purred, drowsy. 

“Oh,” the mage said awkwardly, “I'm not actually here to – I brought out some tea, in case you wanted to share it.” He thrust the jug out toward Ma'dran, who only stared at him for a moment in puzzlement. Uthgerd looked from one to the other and stood, taking the jug and motioning the elf toward the fire. 

“That was thoughtful,” she said, sniffing at the concoction as if she didn't entirely trust it. Which was not exactly unwarranted, Angharad thought, but the mage settled gracelessly down onto the blankets near the fire and blew on his fingers to warm them. He tucked his feet under him and she saw she'd been right; he had no boots. 

“It's only snowberry and lavender,” he explained, waving at the jug Uthgerd had confiscated. “I promise it's not a potion or anything. Not that I could make a real potion if I wanted to. Alchemy takes far too much studying.” 

Ra'zhinda curled her tail around herself, tucking her small glass pipe back into her pocket. “Most strangers are not so kind,” she said, matter-of-fact. “We mean no offense if we are surprised.”

The mage nodded, pushing his hood back to reveal his face. He had the light golden skin of the Altmer, with streaks of red paint across each cheek, and pale hair pulled back to his neck. Angharad was no judge of elves' ages, not when they could live for centuries and look no older than twenty, but the awkwardness in his expression made him seem young. “No, that makes sense. I just thought I should bring something with me if I wanted to share your fire. I'll drink it if you don't want to risk it.” 

Ra'zhinda's eyes registered confusion, but only, Angharad thought, to one who knew what to look for. “Are you lost, elf?” 

He shook his head. “Ah – no,” he stammered. “I'm staying here. In the stable house, I mean, with Ulundil and Arivanya.” He rubbed his temple, faltering. “There's only one room,” he managed at last. “I wanted to, ah, leave them alone for a while. It was either talk to you or the horses.” 

Uthgerd stifled a snicker, and the elf ducked his head, his cheeks crimson. Angharad passed the Nord a cup. “I'd like some tea, if we've decided it's not poisoned. My throat's too frozen to sing.” 

It was only slightly exaggerated. Uthgerd poured a cup, but didn't pass it to her. “It smells safe. What's your name, elf?” 

“Rumarin,” he volunteered easily enough. “Professional adventurer, bladebinder, and grave robber.” 

Angharad reached pointedly toward Uthgerd and her errant cup. “What's a bladebinder?” 

“Oh,” Rumarin said dismissively, “I'd show you, but it's probably not the time and place. I conjure weapons instead of carrying them. Borrowing them from Oblivion means they don't weigh anything, and you never misplace them.” 

Uthgerd snorted. Like most Nords, she preferred a real blade on the back to one conjured from thin air. She passed out the tea and settled back onto the ground, her own greatsword safe beside her. 

Introductions were made, and Rumarin pulled his hood up against the cold. Angharad returned to her playing, fortified by the warmth of the tea and the cold-resistant properties of snowberries, though it never quite seemed to reach the tips of her fingers. The easy conversation had faltered with the new arrival, and there was less of it now, with more attention directed toward her music. Well, it was part of the job of a bard to ease relations, after all, and once her throat and fingers were sufficiently thawed, she let the last chords of _Shadowplay_ fade into the night and launched into a Breton ballad she'd learned from her mother years ago, but now seldome played.

“Miles of road beneath my feet and leagues of open sky  
from wand'ring paths to shores that meet the lonely seabird's cry....”

It was a show piece, back home in High Rock, but not well-known in Skyrim, and between that and its being meant as a duet meant she didn't play it often for anyone but herself. It was a pretty, wistful tune, its melody sweet and ethereal, with intricate fingers and delicate harmonies. She'd practised it for the audition that never happened.

“I follow the fair horizon, I chase a distant dawn  
and send my love a kiss on wand'ring winds ere I press on.  
The winter air away will bear a promise whispered here  
and far in honeyed summer fair he'll feel that I am near....”

There was an interlude then, a place for the bard to show off, and her fingers danced over the lute-strings in the crackling firelight. She fumbled one of the runs, her hands just too cold to match the speed the notes were supposed to reach, but no one seemed to notice. The second stanza was from the wanderer's lover, left alone at home with no word of his beloved and no idea where she was. 

“Oh north wind, bring you tidings from my own true love to me?   
For all alone I bide here while you cross the frigid sea....”

The lover, Angharad had always understood, was somewhere in Cyrodiil, in the heartland of Tamriel – the one place the wanderer never seemed to go. The north wind led her through Skyrim, the east through Morrowind, the south through a desert that must be Elsweyr and the west wind through High Rock, circling but never landing. The winds matched not only the elements but the seasons, and the frantic instrumental runs calmed after the second stanza as the harsh wind and snowfall of Skyrim eased into an anxious Morrowind spring:

“A crimson sky, a russet road, my path leads ever east,   
my heart from out this wanderlust will never be released....” 

The catch, she thought, was that the speaker would end up in High Rock at last, having completed a circuit of the entire empire, while it seemed increasingly unlikely that Angharad herself would ever leave Skyrim. Morrowind was no longer a place anyone wanted to go, and Elsweyr too distant to contemplate. It was a strange feeling, this split inside herself; when she sang “but still my mind strays homeward” no picture formed in her mind – not the little farm near Rorikstead where her aunt and uncle lived, nor her mother's house in Wayrest. She no longer belonged to either of them. 

Her fingers were cold, and she fumbled again; it threw her off the line and she repeated a few bars to regain her place. The absent lover, pleading with the wind for tidings, deserved to have his lines sung properly.

It was a surprise, then, when another voice took them up instead. 

“Oh eastern wind, have you a tale to bring my aching heart?  
For spring has come on winter's tail ere we have been apart....”

She looked up. The elf was huddled near the fire, his arms wrapped around himself, singing self-consciously into his knees. It was far from confident, though he clearly knew the words, and some small variations in the melody suggested his familiarity was with the troubadour version – the Betony Variation, as it was called at home, with its odd sweet harmonies; Angharad shifted her playing ever so slightly to match it.

By the time his verse ended and she started to sing again, Ma'dran and Ra'zhinda were watching the mage curiously, their eyes narrow and mazed with moon sugar. He avoided their gazes, his own attention moving between Angharad's hands and the crackling bonfire. When her lines had ended, and it was time to ask the south wind for news of his beloved he sang again, only a little more confidently, still staring into the flames.

When the circle was complete, when the wanderer had traversed all four directions and her absent lover had pleaded with each wind to tell him of her, the two voices joined at last. The last lines were the reason bards didn't sing the ballad alone – separately, they might be able to do all the verses, but the song's true exquisite, painful beauty rested in the intricate sweet-and-sour harmonies of the final stanzas. Her voice was high and clear as starlight, his misty like running water, and between them the lute's rich melody danced like the sparks rising from the flames. At last, the sunset brought the wandering singer home to her beloved's bed, he woke from troubled dreams at the brush of her hand, and the singers' voices faded with the lute's last chord. 

“I don't think I've ever heard that one,” Uthgerd mused, as the snow dampened any lingering echoes in the air. “And here I thought I'd become familiar with your entire repertoire.”

Angharad shrugged. “You can see why I don't do it much. I did ask Mikael once, back in Whiterun, but he doesn't know it. Surprisingly few people do.” The implicit question was left unspoken.

The elf heard it, though, for what it was. “My parents were troubadours,” he explained, without looking up. “An entire misspent youth among performers – jesters, musicians, actors...I was rather more drawn to the jester, but I was bound to pick up a song or two purely from endless exposure.”

Angharad was sure of the answer before she asked, but tried anyway: “Want to come and sing it with me in Candlehearth Hall?”

“Divines, no.” He looked half-worried that she might be serious. “I'm doing something very important that night. And in fact every night. Forever. This was strictly a one-off. In fact,” he added, hastening to his feet, “I can probably go back inside now. Ulundil isn't _that_ – uh, never mind. But it was nice to meet you all.”

The khajiit regarded him lazily, and Uthgerd struggled not to laugh. Angharad said, “I didn't mean it.” 

Rumarin shrugged. “I know. I didn't either. I'm not really busy every night forever. But my feet are cold. I'll actually probably see you again.” 

Ma'dran raised one hand and purred, “May your road lead you to warm sands.”

“Thank you,” Rumarin said. “Somehow that seems like so much more than metaphor just now.” He nodded to them, gathering up the tea jug, and turned away. Within moments he had disappeared, swallowed by the night and swirling snow.

Uthgerd regarded Angharad for a moment, appraising. “It's time for us to get back to the city too,” she said firmly. “Especially if there's a killer roaming the streets. I'll split as many skulls as I need to, but I don't deny I'd rather just see us both safe to our beds.”

Ra'zhinda let out a short, sharp hiss. “What killer is this?” she demanded, her body stiffening without moving from its sprawl. 

Angharad shook her head quickly. “It's nothing,” she protested. “Well – no, it isn't nothing, but it's a local problem. Some sick person murdering women—but who's going to challenge us with Wolf and Uthgerd around?”

The khajiit exchanged hard looks, and she knew they would be even more vigilant than usual. Not that any Nord would be able to sneak up on a khajiit, even one asleep in the snow. “Still,” Ma'dran mused, “this one would prefer you were safe inside the walls of the inn.” 

“So would this one,” Uthgerd said, in a voice that brooked no argument. Not that Angharad would bother; she was perfectly happy to return to Candlehearth Hall and a warm bed. She loosened the lute's pegs and packed it carefully away.

The clouds had begun to clear as they spoke, and by the time Angharad and Uthgerd picked their way back across the snow toward the bridge, vivid streaks of violet aurora were visible in the spaces between them, pale stars glittered like shivering icicles. Angharad really was shivering by the time they reached the gate, even huddled under her fur cloak. The guard at the gate looked at Uthgerd's grim face, and only nodded as he pulled open the door. 

They had barely stepped inside when the frostbitten silence of the winter night was broken by a heart-stopping shriek. It sliced through the cold air, then just as suddenly cut off with a dull, strangled sound which left no echo. It raised all the hairs on Angharad's neck. The guard's face paled, stricken, and he swung in the air as if he were being pulled in two directions – guard the gate, or investigate the sound? Uthgerd's mouth set, and she was off, though the high towers and narrow roads made it difficult to know where the sound came from. Angharad hurried behind her, summoning Wolf without thinking; the familiar loped protectively at her side.

They raced through the labyrinth of slippery stone roads until she was dizzy. Angharad pulled up short as Uthgerd stopped suddenly. The shieldmaiden's hood had fallen back, the plaits loosed from her pale, tangled hair. Her greatsword was still on her back, but her fists were clenched. She jerked her head, _this way_.

Angharad nodded once, her hand on her axe. There had been no more screaming – the city was eerily silent, but now she could barely hear the low hum of voices. Uthgerd strode down the icy steps and into the graveyard outside the Hall of the Dead. Angharad followed her.

The voices belonged to the others who appeared to have followed the sound: a guardsman, his face obscured by his helmet; a beggar woman Angharad had given a septim only that morning; Calixto, the old man who ran the museum of curiosities; someone in the robes of the priesthood of Arkay. They stood, gaping, around a body – slumped limp across a gravestone, arms outflung. Blood matted a tangled mess of golden hair and crusted the edges of vicious gashes.

The priestess, with the familiarity of those who served Arkay, turned the body gently over. Whoever had murdered the girl had been unfathomably quick; the slices across her legs and belly, and above her heart, were deliberate and deep. But it was not the wounds that stopped Angharad's breath, or made Uthgerd's hand clamp vice-like on her shoulder. 

It was the face. She stared into the empty blue eyes of Susanna the Wicked, and the city swam around her.


	2. Chapter 2

There were patterns on the ceiling: loops and whorls of wood-lines, curving around the knots that were never sanded away. The floor was made of the same wood, but years of footsteps had worn it smooth. How many years? More than a hundred, Susanna said. The flame had burned the whole time. 

But Susanna was dead. Her body was ripped open, left where it fell. Angharad did not really know her, so why did the hollow light of those dim blue eyes, wide open but unseeing, haunt her? She had seen enough bodies by now. She burned Marius and Astius on the side of the road to Whiterun. They left a cairn around the bandits in Solitude. She'd taken an amulet of Talos from the fallen corpse of a traitor. She had said rites for both her parents. Skyrim was full of bodies. 

But when she closed her eyes, she saw Susanna's waxen face, and so she stared at the whorls on the ceiling.

She'd dreamt of Marius for weeks after he died, and she'd only known him for hours. Once in the Bannered Mare she'd woken to Mikael shaking her, singing to her desperately as he tried to wake or calm her. He thought it haunted her because she'd nearly died too, and maybe he was right. Maybe this was the same – Susanna could be anyone. Angharad had laughed off the murderer only minutes before he'd killed someone. 

He could have come after her, and then Uthgerd would have killed him, and Susanna would be alive. 

She counted the lines on the planks that made up the ceiling. If the inn itself had stood for a century or more, how old were the trees it was built from? 

There was blood on the snow. The priestess of Arkay carried Susanna's broken body into the Hall of the Dead. The old man, Calixto, said he'd seen someone running away, but wasn't fast enough to catch up. Would it matter if he had? The beggar woman came when she heard the scream, just as Angharad and Uthgerd had. Angharad vaguely remembered offering to the guardsman to help find the murderer, before Uthgerd took her by the shoulders and steered her back toward Candlehearth Hall.

Elda fussed over her, gave her a mug of warm mead and wrapped her in a blanket, though her eyes were red-rimmed and bleak. Somehow she had already heard. Uthgerd told her to sleep. She tried, but there was Susanna and there was Marius, and sometimes it was Ma'dran or Saadia or even Uthgerd herself. And so Angharad lay still and counted tree-lines on the ceiling. It was well after dawn now; the thick walls kept out any light but she could hear footsteps in the corridor outside, and Nils humming to himself. Did he know, yet? He must not know. The humming stopped.

The door to her room swung open. Uthgerd's face was tight, her eyes dark-ringed with weariness. She carried a plate with some bread and cheese. “Did you get any rest?” 

Angharad shook her head. “Not really.” 

Uthgerd sat down on the edge of the bed and set the plate between them. The scent of fresh-baked bread rose from it. “I didn't think so. I didn't either.”

Angharad sat up, pulling up her knees to make more room, and reached for a bit of bread. It was still warm. “I don't know why I'm like this.” 

“Because you're not actually a hardened warrior,” Uthgerd said simply. “And there's no shame in that. Death comes to us all, but a death like that—there _should_ be some horror in it.” She fell silent to deal with a bit of cheese. And then she said, “I've been to talk to Jorleif.” 

The name didn't mean anything at first. “Who is—you mean the Jarl's steward?” 

Uthgerd nodded. “If you meant what you told the guard last night about wanting to help—and I know you did, and so did I—then he's the one to authorise it. He's the first to admit the guards aren't doing everything they can.” Her voice hardened. “Everyone swears it's because they have to keep the Imperial army out of Windhelm, but if you can't keep your own people safe within your own walls, what in Oblivion kind of Jarl are you?” 

What kind of Jarl, indeed? Angharad forced a grim smile. “Ulfric Stormcloak.” 

Uthgerd's weary nod was acknowledgement enough. “He thought we should start at the House of the Dead. Ask the priestess about the body.” Her lined face gentled as Angharad stopped chewing. “I can go. You don't have to.” 

Angharad made herself shake her head, forced herself to swallow the lump of bread. It felt heavy now, clogging her throat. “No, I will.” 

Uthgerd's hand closed on her shoulder, rested there a moment. “Come out when you're ready,” she said as she rose. Then the comforting weight of her hand was gone, and she made her way out the door. 

* * * * 

Even at mid-morning, the House of the Dead was dim and clammy, with a sickly floral smell that seemed out of place. Uthgerd's steel boots rang out on the stone floor, but Angharad's soft leather ones were silent, her footsteps swallowed up by the cavernous hall. In a sudden weak moment she summoned Wolf, who padded silent and transparent at her side. Uthgerd shot her a disapproving look, but said nothing. They found the old priestess Helgird near the altar, bent over the high stone slab on which Susanna's body rested.

“Large diagonal cut from the left shoulder,” the old woman said, without turning to greet them. “Another, v-shaped, across the upper chest.”

Angharad watched her, from a distance, the flickering torchlight playing across Susanna's waxen skin. “Is that important?” 

Helgird paused, straightened, finally turning, flinty-eyed, toward her. “It might be. It's the shape of the cuts. Come here.” 

Angharad froze, but only for a moment. _This is how you make things better. You solve the mystery. You stop more people from dying._ She stepped forward, and Helgird gripped her arm and pulled her up to the slab. Whatever the old woman had done, it worked; Susanna's eyes were closed and her face looked peaceful even above her bloodied body. But no – the blood was cleaned away too. The vicious red gashes showed against her skin, but did not look quite real. 

“There is a tool – a small curved blade. The ancient Nords used them when embalming the dead. See the angle here, where the skin was cut? It looks like that's what made it.” 

Angharad watched her peel a bit of Susanna's skin back. It was surprisingly easy not to think of it as being part of a person. Uthgerd asked, from behind her, “Who would have one of these blades?” 

Helgird shrugged, her grip loosening and vanishing as she let go of Angharad's arm. “No one in Windhelm that I know of. Except me, that is.” Her chin raised and she looked past Angharad at Uthgerd, steely, as if challenging her to suggest the murder was her work. 

But Uthgerd only let out a small, irritated breath. “It isn't much to go on.” 

“No,” Helgird agreed, unsympathetic. “But it's what I have. I also have a body to prepare for Arkay.” She turned away in what was clearly dismissal, ignoring them as they stood for a few more awkward moments. When it became clear that they would get no more from her, they made their way back to the door of the hall.

They emerged blinking against the light. Even the eternal snow-blind grey of Windhelm's sky was bright compared with the shadowy gloom of the Hall of the Dead, and it took Angharad's eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, Uthgerd was watching her worriedly.

“You all right?” 

“Fine. Better,” Angharad admitted, though she wasn't actually sure that was the case. She felt oddly numb. “It's not much to go on, though. Why? And how? There wasn't that much time, between when she screamed and when the rest of us got there. Whoever it was worked fast, to kill her and cut that precisely.” 

“They've had practice,” Uthgerd agreed. Her breath puffed in small annoyed clouds into the frigid air. Angharad was watching one hover in front of her lips and then dissolve when Wolf's quizzical half-howl cut through her daze. 

He shimmered in the cloud-grey light, his head bent toward the stones, ears perked. He let out another soft howl, and Angharad saw Uthgerd shiver. 

“What does he want?” 

“I don't know.” She moved toward him, and he started up the stairs away from the graveyard. He made it two steps up before he vanished with a _pop_ , and Angharad summoned him back before Oblivion could erase whatever he'd found from his mind. 

For a moment, he looked disoriented, trotting around her. But then some scent caught him again, and he went stiff. “Wolf? What is it?” 

He whined again, and trotted away. They followed. Sometimes he would pause, bending low to the ground as if searching for a scent, then his tail would go straight and he'd be off again. He led them through the winding streets to the alleys that touched the Valunstrad. By the time they reached the wider avenues his strides had lengthened to a determined lope, and Angharad was half-running to keep up with him.

At last Wolf stopped. He stood in front of a large stone-and-wood house, its high peaked roof and towering wings dwarfed by the city walls behind it, the shadow of the Palace of the Kings keeping it half in darkness. Wolf paced at the top of the steps, sniffing at the door. Angharad and Uthgerd followed him.

No light shone from inside the house; no lamps flickered in the windows. Angharad lifted a gloved hand to knock when something dark caught her eye near the base of the door, where Wolf was sniffling. She knelt on the ice just as the familiar blinked out of sight.

“Look.” The stones outside the door had been scrubbed nearly clean, but a few smears of something she had come to recognise as dried blood darkened the wood at the base. “Whose house is this?” 

“Friga Shatter-shield's,” Uthgerd answered, gazing hard at the symbols around the door. 

Angharad stood, already fishing in her pocket. “The girl who was killed before...do you think the Butcher killed her on her front doorstep? Why would Wolf lead us here?” She drew a thin metal pick from her pocket and shot the door a defiant look. “Watch for guards?” 

Uthgerd made a small disapproving sound, but crossed her arms and positioned herself at Angharad's back, toward the road. “Or we could just ask her family for the key.” 

“We could,” Angharad murmured, a little breathless, her cheek pressed to the door. “But then the killer might find out we've got a lead, and we lose the element of surprise.” The pick caught in the latch, and the lock creaked open.

Her hand on her axe, she nudged the door open and slipped inside. Uthgerd followed.

The once-grand house had obviously not been lived in for some time. A few bits of furniture – tables, chairs, a discoloured barrel – remained, pushed against the walls, but cobwebs clung like curtains to the ceiling and a thin mantle of dust covered the surfaces.

Most of the surfaces. A smooth, clear trail led from the entry hall, as if something had been dragged. Uthgerd's mouth tightened, and she drew her greatsword. Angharad, her hand on her axe, whispered the spell to summon Wolf again. 

Almost immediately he put his nose to the floor and trotted toward the back of the house. The women followed him – Uthgerd first, her sword raised; Angharad at the back with her hand on her axe. She winced at every creak of a floorboard, every footfall that seemed a little too loud, certain at any moment that the Butcher would appear. A noise startled her and she spun on her heel, but there was nothing there. A rat, perhaps, or a gust of wind. Uthgerd shot her a worried look. 

Wolf stopped in front of a wardrobe, his transparent form wavering like a mirage in the snow. He let out a little howl, soft and confused. Uthgerd turned to Angharad, her sword still held out in front of her. “What's the matter with him?” 

“I don't know.” Angharad's communication with her familiar, as a general rule, went only one way. “But if there were someone here waiting to jump out and attack us, he'd be able to find them. Let's look around the place and see what we can find.”

The Butcher, if indeed it was, had not apparently worried much about clearing away the signs of his passage. Dust was swept from certain doors and shelves, and most of the floor in this room was clear. A haphazard pile of pamphlets were stuffed into a bookcase; Uthgerd held one up with distaste.

“I'm not sure if he's collecting these, or trying to keep people from seeing them,” she said, offering one to Angharad. “They're all the same.”

The words BEWARE THE BUTCHER were emblazoned across the top, followed by an exhortation to report suspicious, killer-like behaviour to one Viola Giordano. 

“That's the woman from the inn the other night,” Angharad said, yanking the whole stack out of the case. “The one who fancies the sea-captain. Poor woman's not had any help at all, even the guards seemed exasperated.”

Uthgerd snorted. “Because they're useless.”

“They don't – ” Angharad began, but stopped as the faint light from the window glinted off something that had been hidden beneath the papers. “There's something here.”

“Be careful,” Uthgerd said, but it was only a necklace that Angharad scooped out of the back of the bookshelf: silver around a deep green stone, and faintly warm to the touch. 

She slipped it into her pocket. “We'll take a closer look later, I don't want to stay here too long,” she said, straightening. She tucked one of the pamphlets into her cloak but returned the rest. “It's strange, I feel like that's only the beginning.”

Uthgerd jerked her head toward Wolf. “Maybe that's why.” The familiar stood transparent and perfectly still at the door of a wardrobe, as if he were guarding its entrance. The women exchanged a look, and Uthgerd readied her sword. “I'll check it out.” 

She yanked the door open, but for all the tension of the moment, it revealed only an empty wardrobe. This, too, was strangely free of dust, and as Angharad moved closer to investigate, Wolf howled determinedly. He pressed his muzzle to the back wall, and it made his head distort in a wispy cloud; he shuddered and sat down.

“All right,” Angharad said, and pressed her own hand there. Nothing happened – it was flimsy wood, bowing beneath the pressure, but that was all. On a hunch, she tapped at it. Here it was solid, here hollow. “...I think the back of this comes off.”

Once they knew what they were looking for, it was the work of moments to open the false panel and the door in the wall behind it. What took more than moments was taking in the gruesome scene before them.

If any remaining doubt had lingered that this was indeed the lair of the Butcher, it was now dispelled. An altar, surrounded by half-melted candles, bore a grisly collection of body parts sewn inexpertly together, bones and sinew and muscle and skin. Bones were scattered nearby, left with rotting bits of flesh in pots and discarded on the floor, and blood had dried in rough splashes across the walls. It smelled like ash and decay, and Angharad had to try hard not to retch. Wolf gave a whine as he disappeared.

“By the gods.” Uthgerd lowered her sword; there was nothing here that would move of its own accord. “What in Oblivion is it?” 

“A necromancer's ritual.” Angharad's experience was extremely limited and purely academic, but it wasn't a difficult guess. Cast onto the floor amongst the discarded bones was a book, its cover smeared with blood, and she reached for it. “Look – here's a list. Seventeen tendons and ligaments. A hundred and seventy-three pieces of bone. Six spoons of marrow. Gods.” She turned over a page. “This is about hunting Susanna. And there's more, but I can't read it.” 

Uthgerd peered over her shoulder at the curling, spidery hand. “What is that?” 

“Altmeris.” She couldn't read it, but she recognised fragments of words, the lyrical flow of the syllables. “It's all over High Rock. Leftover from the Dirennis.” 

“That could narrow down our options,” Uthgerd observed. “There aren't going to be that many people in Windhelm who can write it. Of course,” she added dryly, “it would be more useful if we could read it.”

Angharad turned the page over; the rest of the words were in the common imperial language. “We might know someone who can.”

“We shouldn't stay,” Uthgerd said practically. “We can look more closely at all of it we're out of here. Not that I'd mind,” she added, sounding almost disappointed, “being here when the bastard got back, necromancer or not. But if we want to find him _before_ someone else dies, I don't think we can just sit here and wait.”

“No, you're right.” Angharad looked around the room a last time, helplessly. “I don't like leaving them – it feels incomplete, like we should at least lay them to rest. But Helgird can do that, when we tell her.”

Uthgerd nodded grim agreement. “Arkay keep you,” she said quietly to the room, “until then.” 

They closed the panel and the wardrobe behind them and made their way out of the house. It wouldn't be impossible to tell someone had been there, but neither was it immediately obvious. Besides, Angharad thought, a murdering necromancer was hardly going to report to the city guard that someone had been creeping around his lair. 

The bitter wind welcomed them back onto the empty street. Angharad's fingers closed around the amulet in her pocket, and it was warm against her skin.

* * *

“That,” Angharad said, with a pleased pat of her now-full purse, “was surprisingly lucrative.”

“Yes.” Even Uthgerd was reasonably pleased. “Taking the amulet to the museum was inspired, I have to admit. The Wheelstone, that's what he called it?” 

Angharad nodded. Calixto, the old Imperial who ran the museum of curios they'd spent part of the previous afternoon in, had both named the artefact they'd found in the Butcher's lair and then bought it from them for a substantial amount of money. “Usually worn by the court mage Mind you, I'm surprised Ulfric Stormcloak _has_ a court mage, for all the Nords are on about the evils of magic.”

Uthgerd shrugged. “He's a practical man. Wuunferth the Unliving. It even sounds like the sort of person who'd be messing around with necromancy.”

“It does.” Which was what troubled Angharad about the whole thing, a feeling she was attempting to sort through. “Though it does seem too easy. Too obvious.” 

She expected Uthgerd to dismiss her, but the Nord looked at her thoughtfully instead. They passed the great pointed bulk of Candlehearth Hall, the city wall rising from the snow-grey air to meet them. “Are you sure it doesn't just seem that way because you found just the right clue at the right time?” 

“Maybe.” It was part of what she'd been wondering herself. “But we haven't even seen the man. I don't think I can accuse someone of being a murderer if I've never laid eyes on them.”

The guard at the gate nodded to them as he pushed the door open for them; they returned the gesture politely and made their way out of the city. Uthgerd said, “I don't think I like where this is going.”

Angharad shrugged - “I'm right.” 

“Yes,” Uthgerd sighed. “That's part of what I don't like. What's your plan?” 

“Oh, just to meet him,” Angharad assured her. “Not anything too obvious, I just want to get a feel for him. Besides, if he is the Butcher, maybe he'll come after me once he's seen me. Then we'll have our proof, and you can chop his head off.”

Uthgerd glowered. “I will, too.”

Angharad's smile was braver than it should have been. “I know. That's the only reason I'm ready to try it.” 

The blizzard had finally passed, but the night was no warmer. Without the cover of clouds to keep in what little heat their was, the air was bitterly cold, and their breath puffed out in crystalline clouds. Long gashes of crimson and violet streaked the clear sky as the sun began to sink below the hills, making shadows even in the dark; they flickered against the stone of the bridge. Sunset was early in autumn, this far north.

Uthgerd did not appear convinced. “And you think this elf you were singing with last night will be able to read the rest of the diary.”

Angharad's hand went to her bag, where the blood-spattered journal was tucked away. “I hope so. It's the best idea I have at the moment.” There was no sign of Rumarin outside the stables, but lamplight flickered in the window of Ulundil's little cottage. Beyond it, firelight glowed against the snow-walls of the khajiit camp. They headed toward it.

They had expected to see the khajiit relaxing around the fire, perhaps with moon sugar or a bottle of mead, but instead the camp was on full alert. Ra'zhinda stood sentry with her hand no her sword. 

“Khajiit is glad to see you well and walking,” she hissed, moving aside to let them into the camp. Two figures crouched near the fire, with Maj'had standing over them. 

One of them was the elven mage, and he looked up as they approached. His hood was pushed back, and even the darkness couldn't disguise his worried expression. “Oh, Divines. Am I ever glad to see you.”

Uthgerd looked from the fire to Ra'zhinda, her hands twitching toward her own sword. “What's going on?” 

Mad'ran straightened from where he had been sitting near the fire. “We heard there was another attack,” he said, his voice a low hiss as fierce as Ra'zhinda's. “A Nord told us of it this morning. A young woman, killed like so many before.”

Ra'zhinda stalked forward, glaring at the mage. Moving closer to the fire, Angharad realised he sat there because he had no choice; his arms were bound behind him and he shifted uncomfortably in the snow. “Khajiit saw the lady from the stables,” Ra'zhinda explained. “She goes into the city in the morning, early, before the sun is fully awake. We saw _that one_ follow her. We stopped him.”

“And I _told_ you,” the elf protested. “Arivanya is my friend. I'm not stalking her. I was _worried_ about her, the same as you're worried about your friend here. I wanted to protect her.” 

“So you say,” Ma'dran said calmly, sounding unconcerned. 

Rumarin looked up at Angharad helplessly. “I don't know how to convince them.”

“Maybe if you help us catch the Butcher?” she suggested. It was not impossible, of course, that the khajiit were right. She'd be careful. Even so, the journal was the best lead she had. 

The elf shrugged, wiggling his fingers behind his back. “As you can see, I'm not at my most useful right at the moment. I did think about conjuring a blade to cut through these ropes, but since I can't see behind me, I'm worried I'd accidentally stab myself in the head with it.”

She crouched on the ground next to him, fishing in her satchel. “Not actually what I had in mind anyway. I want to know if you can translate something. It's in Aldmeris.” 

He winced – clearly he wanted to protest; she could see it. “You know, it's a bit racist to assume just because I'm an elf I can read Elvish script. It'd be like me assuming you can speak that barbaric tongue the Forsworn babble in.” 

She levelled a glare. “Maybe, but you'd also be right. Or mostly – it's related to the old Breton language. And I'd definitely try it if it meant people not thinking I was a murderer. Now can you read Aldmeris or not?” 

He sighed. “I make no promises, but let's see it.”

She watched his face carefully as she pulled the journal from her bag. His eyes widened, his mouth curling in distaste, but it seemed to her to be more disgust than familiarity. 

“That's – I assume you found this somewhere incriminating?” 

“Yes.” Angharad flipped gingerly through the pages till she found the one she was looking for. “Signs seem to point to the court mage, so far, but something about that just seems a bit off.” She held out the book so the fire lit the page, and he leaned over awkwardly to peer at it.

He sighed. “It's – well, let's just say I'm not sure it makes sense even if I have it right. 'Star-scrying to the edge of the ice-mind, look to the lights where the souls dance, revealing the time when a spark will revive, when the rotted unites under most skillful hands.' Your guess is as good as mine what it has to do with, though I'm guessing that list of body parts next to it is related.” He wriggled for a moment before letting out an exasperated breath. “Sorry to ask, but my ear itches like crazy, and I obviously can't reach it like this. Would you –?”

It was pathetic and funny all at once, but Angharad managed not to laugh. “Where?” 

“Right t – a little up – oh, there!” He let out a noise like a cat. “Thank you, you don't know how wretched that is. So why the court mage?”

Uthgerd and the khajiit were watching them suspiciously, but not joining in. Angharad told Rumarin about the amulet, though she didn't mention where they'd found it, beyond “a secret room.” The mage, though, showed no signs of recognition.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I've no idea. I've never heard of the Wheelstone, but then, I'm not a real wizard, so....” He shrugged again, trailing off. “But I do think you're right that something seems off. If you're the court mage to Ulfric Stormcloak, why not just ask him for prisoners he doesn't want anymore? Kidnap a few Dunmer from the Grey Quarter, people nobody will miss?”

Angharad nodded. “For that matter, why a secret lair in the city? It's not like the Nords in this place would be likely to recognise a necromancer's ritual, even if it were in the middle of the palace.”

Rumarin worried his lip thoughtfully. “Also,” he ventured, “he's the only known mage in Windhelm. The City Guard may be incompetent, but even they're not _that_ useless, and they are naturally suspicious. It seems like even they might have worked it out before now if it was that easy.”

“Yes,” Angharad said, tucking the journal away again. “But it's the only lead I have.” 

Rumarin smiled grimly. “Other than me.”

Angharad shrugged sheepishly, and looked up to where Ma'dran stood. He had been listening to the conversation, despite maintaining an air of vague indifference. “What are you going to do with him?” 

The khajiit shrugged, a graceful shift of a shoulder as his ears pricked back and forth. “Keep an eye on him. This one thinks that it would have been in a murderer's interest to blame this court mage, or whoever else is near. But how do the Nords say? Better safe than sorry. We will keep him here until we know for sure.”

Rumarin's eyes closed for a moment, weary and resigned. “So either until the real culprit is caught, or someone else dies while I'm tied up here.” He looked at Angharad again, the firelight casting flickering shadows on his golden skin. He looked tired. “On my own behalf and that of the next target, I'd just like to say, please hurry it up a bit.”

“What's the matter, elf?” Ra'zhinda half-growled. “Tired of our company already?” 

“Oh, it's not that,” Rumarin quipped, a forced levity in his voice. “Just, my ear's starting to itch again, and unlike you, I can't reach it with my feet.”

Ra'zhinda hissed, but the sound was lost in the frigid Skyrim wind.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Angharad and Rumarin sing is sung to the melody of the Ulster folk tune Blackwaterside, if you were curious. (You probably weren't, but that's okay.) A version of it by Anne Briggs (though without a harmony duet) is on Youtube here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OxOouYO5tY4


End file.
